


Putting Your Face On

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travie's been trying to stop caring about this kind of shit since she was thirteen years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting Your Face On

**Author's Note:**

> An always-a-girl college AU. Written for [](http://thundercloud.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thundercloud**](http://thundercloud.dreamwidth.org/) 's request for help_haiti.

She's only just walked into the house when she loses Pete. She's used to this by now. Pete tends to walk into parties, instantly spot someone he knows and dash off. He's small and slippery and she can't keep track of him.

Travie flashes her ID at the guy by the door and holds out her hand for the stamp and the cup. "Where's the keg?" she shouts at him over the Outkast blasting in the background.

"What?"

She bends down so that she's closer to his ear and shouts again, "I'm looking for the keg, you know?"

"Oh. It's in the kitchen."

"Okay," she yells and doesn't bother to ask where the kitchen is. She elbows her way down the hall.

They're just putting a new keg into the trash can full of ice when she finds the kitchen. The guys handling it are drunk and sloppy and the keg crashes out of their hands and into the can, splattering a mix of beer and water on the floor. She sidesteps the puddle and gets in line.

Her first sip is all foam and she makes a face. She would have preferred some Scotch or a vodka cranberry, but they only give the good booze to whoever's on the guest list, and she doesn't even know the first name of whoever's giving this party. She takes another drink and thinks about lemonade.

"Where'd you go?" she hears Pete yelling. She looks up from the cup and sees him barreling through the crowd.

"I didn't go anywhere," she says when Pete's close enough to hear her. He almost slips on the puddle but recovers admirably. "Not my fault you can't keep up with me. Whose house is this, anyway?"

"Some guy in my Poli Sci class."

"Named?"

Pete grins and shrugs. Travie sighs and ruffles his hair. "Party crasher."

"Watch the hair, I've got a lot of mousse. You're going to give me bedhead."

"You always have bedhead."

"Hey, little dude," someone yells, and Pete turns around probably from force of habit. "Yo –"

Travie thinks the voice sounds familiar, but before she can check her memory, there's a tall girl shoving her way into the kitchen and planting herself in front of Pete. She says, so quickly that there's no time for either of them to even say a word, "Yo, there's this guy here who's being an asshole and I don't want to deal with him, so I just need you to stand here and act like we're talking for two minutes, okay?"

Travie's first thought is that the girl totally didn't break in her shoes beforehand; she's teetering on five-inch stilettos that look way too expensive for a shitty party like this and she keeps wincing and trying to wiggle her toes. Pete stares up at her like he's not sure what he's looking at.

"So is this your party?" she asks. "Good turnout."

"No," Pete says. "I don't know. It's some guy I have class with."

"How the fuck'd you swing that? I can't get the assholes in my classes to invite me anywhere."

"There's a lot of networking that goes on," Travie says. The girl ignores her.

"You live around here?" she asks Pete.

"Trav, where is the house exactly?" Pete says. "It's like, the other side of campus. Near the Super K."

"So you two are together then?"

"I'm the housemate," Travie puts in, because she has a feeling about this girl and she wants to test it out. "Just the housemate, right, Pete?"

"What the fuck's a housemate, anyway?" Pete says. "It's like you're fuckin' married to a house. The semantics of that are bullshit."

"Not if you know your fuckin' etymology," the girl says. "'Mate,' like associate or whatever? I don't know why you want to bring fuckin' marriage into that, bro."

"Yeah, you know, I'm not up on my etymology," Pete says, and Travie can see this whole thing heading flirt-ward fast and she doesn't want to stick around for it. She starts looking for a way to excuse herself.

"So where are you from?" Pete's asking, but before he can finish the girl says, "Oh, _fuck_ ," and promptly grabs Travie's face in her hands and smashes her mouth against hers.

Travie is too shocked to move. With the heels, the girl towers over her, and though she's ( _Thank God_ ) not trying to stick her tongue down Travie's throat, she doesn't seem about to let go. She smells of some faintly marine perfume, sharp and clean, and her eyes are wide open.

"Yo," Pete says, sounding just as shocked as Travie feels, "Hey."

The girl looks around the room. People are staring. She lets go. "Good, he's gone. You okay there?"

"Dude," Travie says.

The girl looks at her. Her face is flushed, pink slashes across her cheekbones. "Hi," she says. "I'm Gabe." And then she turns and walks away.

"What the fuck?" Travie says. She doesn't know whether she's shell-shocked or if she wants to chase after the girl and punch her out.

"She got lipstick on you," Pete says.

Travie touches her mouth. Her fingers come away smeared with red.

"I think I'm in love," Pete says.

"I think you're a moron," Travie says.

*****

She has a paper due, but she thinks she'll be okay if she just goes to this dude's party on Saturday night and then spends Sunday writing. Ashlee and Victoria are having their Date Night, and Pete's in one of his antisocial moods and holed up in his bedroom, so she wanders over to the house on her own.

The place is starting to fill up by the time she gets her drink. The couch in the living room looked really comfortable when she came in, so she hustles in there before all the good seats get taken. She flops into the cushions and lights a cigarette.

"So where'd you get the pants?" someone asks her.

Travie turns to look and there's that girl, Gabe, lounging on the other end of the couch and smoking a cigarette. She's looking interestedly at Travie's cut-off camouflage pants.

Travie isn't sure what to say. She's had this girl pop up in her head a couple times since the party, less a _how dare she_ than a wondering _what the fuck was that about?_ , and she's wished she'd had the chance to do it over again, say something cool or whatever. And now she doesn't know what to do.

Gabe repeats the question, a little louder. Travie says, "These I got at Army and Navy, I think."

"They come like that, or did you take a scissors to them?"

"I took some scissors to them," Travie says. She fingers her pants' ragged hem.

"Do-it-yourself alterations," Gabe says. "I back it." She drops her cigarette in the beer can sitting in front of her; Travie hears it hiss. "Oh, yeah. What's your name? I'm Gabe."

"Travie. We've met," she says. Maybe this is her chance. "The party?"

"Which one?"

"The one where you talked to my friend for two minutes and then cleaned my tonsils with your tongue?"

Gabe looks blank. Her face doesn't seem to have any pores. Travie pegs it as the kind of makeup job that takes forty-five minutes to put on and lasts for one night of denying wearing makeup. Her mouth is lipgloss-shiny.

"I was with Pete Wentz," Travie prompts. "You were hiding from some guy?"

Gabe shakes her head. Travie still can't tell if she's bullshitting or not.

"You don't remember?"

"It's a distinct possibility, if I was drinking. Was I drinking?"

"I didn't get a chance to ask."

"I got no clue what you're talking about."

"You really don't remember."

Gabe laughs. "Don't take it personally, dude. I got about a two day memory, two and a half if I'm lucky. I don't remember a thing."

Travie thought she was more memorable than this. She takes a drag on her cigarette.

"So how was I?" Gabe says. "Was I awesome?"

"Not really," Travie says and smiles.

"Glad I don't remember it then." Gabe smiles back at her.

Travie wishes she didn't have a soft spot for girls with issues. She puts her cigarette out and lights another.

There's a dude who's been eyeing them from across the room for the last ten minutes. He finally gets his nerve up, comes and stands in front of the couch and says, "Hi," looking at Gabe.

"Hey," Gabe says, pleasant but offhand. She leans over. "You've been biting your nails," she says to Travie, and taps the back of her hand. Gabe's nails are covered with some sort of glittery golden polish.

"Got to kill the stress somehow," Travie says.

"Hand cream," Gabe says authoritatively. "That's what you need. Just get a fuckin' vat of it."

The dude gets the message and slinks off, tail between his legs. Travie says, "You kinda shut him down there."

Gabe shrugs and rises to her feet. "Yeah, I know. I'm kind of a princess, what can I say?" She wanders off into the next room.

Travie feels even more discombobulated than before, which means she drinks too much. She's staggering out towards the bathroom when she finds Gabe sprawled out on the stairs in the front hall, her face pressed into the banister. Her eyes are practically shut and she looks halfway to sliding to the bottom of the stairs.

Ordinarily Travie would just roll her eyes and think something uncharitable about not knowing about tolerance levels, except there's a guy up at the top of the stairs looking at Gabe like he's a German Shepherd and she's a T-bone steak. She has an attack of conscience and bends over, shaking Gabe's shoulder, crooning, "Drunk girl, drunk girl, where do you live, drunk girl?"

Gabe opens one eye. "Oh, hello," she manages. "What's going on?"

"Where do you live? You're getting spit on the maple."

"I am not."

"Partying done. No more party." Travie pulls Gabe up. It's pretty easy; she only weighs like five pounds, and she's an inch or two shorter than Travie now that she's not wearing huge scary shoes.

"You're being responsible," Gabe says. "Why you gotta be responsible, Travie?" She draws the name out into about ten syllables.

"Past bedtime," Travie says, surprised Gabe knows her name, and drags her out the door. "Where do you live?"

"I didn't even drink that much," Gabe complains. "I want my phone."

"Where is it?"

"It is…" Gabe sways against her, digging in the pocket of her hoodie. "Here."

"I still don't know where you live," Travie says. The fresh air is rapidly killing her buzz, and Gabe seems to be getting heavier by the second.

"What?"

"Where is your house?"

"Down the street. Big red house." Gabe throws her arms around Travie's neck. "I don't think you should be walking. You're drunk."

"You're drunker."

"I'm not."

"Whatever you say." Travie practically has to hip-check her to get her to move.

"I need to pee."

"You can pee at your house." Gabe is still hanging off her neck. She's beginning to sweat and her arms are aching.

"I need a bush," Gabe says and snickers.

"Yeah, like I want someone to look out the window and see you pissing on the rhododendrons. Just hold it."

"C'mon. I'll be quick. I'll be quick as a little mouse."

"Girl, you need to shut up."

"Quit being a pussy."

"I am so leaving your ass on the lawn," Travie says.

"Pussy," Gabe says again and puts her chin on Travie's shoulder. Travie finally spots the red house and hauls Gabe up the walk. She contemplates just tossing her down and running, but it's kind of cold out and Gabe doesn't seem to be in any shape to move by herself just yet. She bangs on the front door irritatedly.

"Noise ordinances," Gabe says.

"Fuck you."

A tall guy in a scarf opens the door and Gabe says happily, "Ryland!"

"Hoo boy," the guy says.

Travie isn't in the mood for pleasantries. "This one –" she points at Gabe – "has been a pain in my ass all night. Can you just take your girlfriend and put her to bed before she gets arrested?"

"Not my girlfriend," Ryland says, trying to untangle Gabe from around Travie's neck.

"That's right," Gabe says, then sings in Travie's ear, "Because Gabrielle don't fuck with dick."

"Whatever the hell she is, then." Travie pushes Gabe off of her. "I totally lost my buzz. _Thanks_."

Gabe gives her a disarmingly sweet smile, staggering against Ryland's chest. "Thank you, Travie. You get some sleep, okay?"

"Night," Ryland says and shuts the door.

Travie knows without a shadow of a doubt that she's going to fail that paper.

*****

"I just don't know what the deal is with her," Travie says. She doesn't wait for a reply. She and Pete and Ashlee and Victoria are scrunched together in the living room watching _Dancing With the Stars_ , but Travie can't pay attention.

"Dude, I know more about this girl than I know about you by this point," Pete says.

"That isn't true."

"You do kind of talk about her a lot, Travie," Ashlee says from her place on the couch. Victoria's feet are in her lap.

"I do not," Travie says. She swallows a handful of corn chips to emphasize her point. "I don't talk about her at all."

"Oh please," Pete says. "Gabe this, Gabe that. Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe. She can't annoy you _that_ much."

"She's _obnoxious_ ," Travie says. "She's just another LUG, I'd bet. And she's got daddy issues written all over her."

"She's also got hot written all over her," Pete says.

Travie grunts. "I didn't notice."

"Is she really hot?" Ashlee asks. Victoria gives her an annoyed look. "I'm just curious."

"Total babe," Pete says. "Big brown-eyed Amazon. I'd have totally gone for it if I hadn't known I'd get shot down."

"You'd have gone for it anyway," Travie says. Pete rolls his eyes and tosses one of his popcorn kernels at her. She catches it in her mouth.

Pete and Ashlee used to have kind of a thing together, way before Travie moved in. Pete took it more seriously than he should have, considering Ashlee's always been pretty upfront about liking girls, and though it was long over by the time Travie moved in and Ash met Victoria, she doesn't think that Pete ever really got over it. Both she and Pete have a tendency to fall in love with what they can't have.

"So when are you going to look her up in the directory and give her a piece of your mind?" Pete asks. "Or are you just going to keep obsessing?"

"I'm not obsessing."

"Maybe she reminds you of Katy," Victoria pipes up.

"She does _not_ ," Travie snaps. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ash poke Victoria hard in the hip.

"Ow," Victoria says. "I was just –"

"This has nothing to do with Katy," Travie says, trying to ignore the sting that still comes with saying Katy's name. She can't wait until that goes away.

She likes Victoria a lot, but she's not exactly the queen of tact.

"Bergeron is so totally reading cue cards," Pete says. "I swear, the man is an alien."

"He's funny," Ashlee says, rubbing Victoria's hip in apology, making sure it's out of Pete's eyeshot. Travie keeps plowing through her corn chips and resolves not to say anything else for the rest of the night.

*****

Travie works at the record shop just above the falafel place, and she likes it fine except for the dorky uniform she has to wear, and for the times when she's hungover and still has to come in at ten in the morning. No one's in the store at ten in the morning, she doesn't know what the big deal is.

She's too busy counting the minutes until her next smoke break to hear the door open. It's only when she goes to throw her water bottle at the trash can that she notices Gabe, face half-hidden behind a massive pair of sunglasses, wandering through the vinyl section and frowning at the album covers. Travie thinks, _Fuck_.

She wishes it wasn't ten in the morning. She wishes she wasn't the only one here and there was a looser customer service policy. Most of all she wishes she wasn't wearing this ugly-ass black-and-white checked shirt with a name tag pinned on the front.

She locks up the register and comes out, saying, "Hey. Need help?"

Gabe looks up. The surprise is evident even behind the gigantic sunglasses. Her mouth is colored a kind of chocolate-brown today, dark and glossy. Figures she'd be dressed to the nines even at this time of morning. "Travie. You work here?"

"Kind of obvious, right?" Travie says, pointing at her name tag. "So how's life? Been to any parties recently?"

"Always," Gabe says, thumbing through the album covers. "I guess I kind of ruined your night that time, huh?"

"You got it," Travie says. "You better thank your lucky stars that guy was there. I was gonna dump you on the porch."

"Dude, you needn't have worried. Ryland's always home doing some weird Theatre major thing. 'The tip of the tongue, the teeth, the lips…'" Gabe shrugs. "It's a Shakespearean nightmare over there."

Travie isn't going to smile. She is definitely going to force herself not to smile. "You looking for anything?"

Gabe makes a helpless gesture. "Yo, how are these things set up? I'm lookin' for some Kool Moe Dee and I can't find a damn thing."

"Oh…" Travie says. The store owner has this overly convoluted organizational system that's been known to make the uninitiated cry. "Here. You know what label? Or year?"

"Jive," Gabe says without hesitating. "Like…I don't know, it was the eighties. Late eighties."

" _How Ya Like Me Now_?" Travie says, pulling out the album. "Like that?"

Gabe takes the record and grins at her. She has a tiny gap between her front teeth. "Nice work, David Copperfield." The words are sarcastic but the tone isn't, and Travie isn't sure what to do.

Finally she just says, "That it?"

"Huh," Gabe says. She takes her sunglasses off and taps them against her mouth. Her eyes look a little puffy but any shadows are expertly covered with makeup. "Hey, you got anything by Information Society? I have no idea what label they were on."

"Hmm," Travie says. She doesn't get a lot of requests for Information Society. "I can look it up, I think."

Gabe makes a face and waves her hand. "Nah, forget about it. You know what I think I should get instead? Do you have singles? I'm probably going to pick up Head to Toe. Lisa Lisa, I think it was on Columbia."

"I can find that," Travie says and goes to the Columbia section. Gabe seems like a quick study; while Travie's going through the albums, she's already purposefully searching, compiling a stack on the way.

It's none of Travie's business, and she doesn't even care, really, but it looks like Gabe's planning to drop more than two hundred dollars this morning. She hands over Lisa Lisa and asks, "You a big vinyl fan?"

"Not my style," Gabe says, snatching up some Schooly D.

"You're picking up a lot of crap for something that's not your style."

"I got asked to DJ for this house party," Gabe says. "I'm a pussy who just uses CDs, but they have this scary-ass turntable and I need to bring my game up. Plus, you know, good investment. Hey, I'm buying a lot of shit here today, can I get a discount? C'mon."

Travie looks at her.

"Ooh, you're a hard-ass, I can tell," Gabe says. "Eh, whatever, I know it's probably part of the job. Don't hate the player, hate the game, right?"

Travie grunts and helps her carry the albums to the register. "You really DJ?"

"Duh," Gabe says cheerfully. "Parties, bat mitzvahs, church functions. A girl needs a hobby." She sounds like she's joking, but Travie can't be sure.

"Where's the party this time?"

"Some townie guy's place," Gabe says. "Hey, you want to hear some cool music, you should come over Thursday night. I'll put you on the guest list."

Travie starts ringing the albums up. She looks at Gabe.

"Hey, I'll behave myself. You won't have to drag me home again. Pinky swear," Gabe says. She raises her hand.

"I'll see if I have anything to do," Travie says. "Where is it?"

"I'll write it down," Gabe says. Travie goes to grab some paper, but before she gets there Gabe grabs a Sharpie from next to the register and then Travie's hand, writing down the address on her palm. She adds a smiley face underneath.

"I'm going to sweat and it's going to come off," Travie complains.

"Indelible ink," Gabe says. "You're good to go for at least two hours. I had a hell of a time figuring out where to write. Look at all your awesome tattoos, girl." She taps Travie's wrist.

Travie smiles.

*****

She gets to the house at ten. It's already crowded and the music is going, and for a minute she thinks she missed Gabe's spot, but then she gets a look into the living room where the turntable is and Gabe's not there. The turntable is a Technics model that looks vintage, and it stands in the corner like an aluminum behemoth.

Travie heads for the booze. The bar is set up somewhere in the backyard, and she manages to push her way through the crowd. There are Christmas lights hanging from the trees.

She finally spots Gabe standing a little ways apart from the crowd. She's smoking a cigarette and tapping her foot in the dirt. She's wearing something that looks like a castoff from Hole's Doll Parts video, bright red and barely reaching her knees. Her eyes are thickly lined.

Travie would have expected her to be doing something borderline obnoxious, but she's standing like she doesn't want to be looked at. When she glances up at the house, she looks a little lost and a lot scared, and it makes Travie feel unsettled.

She pushes her way through the crowd. Gabe sees her coming. She tosses her cigarette on the ground and gives her an offhanded, "Hey."

"Hey," Travie says. "How's it going?"

"This party is full of assholes," Gabe says. "I think the bartender is an anti-Semite. He was giving me the eye."

"You want a drink? I was heading that way."

"No," Gabe says sharply. "I gotta start the set in twenty minutes. I have no idea how that fucking thing works sober." She lights another cigarette.

Travie watches her wrist jerk back and forth, flicking imaginary ash. "Okay, but what about water? Some juice?"

Gabe looks like she's about to tell Travie off, but then her shoulders slump. "Juice," she says finally. "It's a cash bar. I'll give you something for it."

"After the set," Travie says, and starts pushing her way to the bar.

She gets an orange juice and some Scotch for herself. Gabe is still in the same place when she gets back. She downs the juice that Travie hands her like it's a shot, choking and coughing a little. She brushes Travie off when she tries to pat her back.

"Just nerves?" Travie asks. "Is that it?"

"Same old story," Gabe says. "I'll be fine in a minute. I should have seen this coming."

"Any of your friends here? Support or whatever?"

"I dunno. I guess."

Travie doesn't feel like interpreting Gabe at this moment. "It'll be okay," she says finally. "Everyone's drunk anyway. People get forgiving when they're drunk. If, you know."

"They'd be a lot more forgiving if I were a foot shorter and had some implants," Gabe says. She looks at her empty cup. "I better go. Thanks for the drink." She turns and walks away.

Travie looks at her Scotch. She thinks she doesn't know if she wants to drink it.

What she wants to do is chase after Gabe and say, _Listen, we've all got shit we're dealing with_ , just to let her know, or something. Travie's been trying to stop caring about this kind of shit since she was thirteen years old.

She manages to get into the living room just as Gabe's setting up the turntable. She's got her game face on. She introduces herself with a huge smile and a laughing, "Just so you know, when I fuck up it makes me just that much more awesome, okay?"

She does fuck up, the usual types of mistakes when someone tries a linear tracking turntable for the first time, but she's quick on the mike, and she's able to keep joking while she tries to get the records going. Some drunk guy screams, "Show us your tits!" at one point, and Gabe says, "Can't right now, but everyone's free to kiss my ass if they want."

When she walks out from behind the turntable, her eye makeup is smeared, and her hair is damp with sweat. There's another DJ coming up to take her place already. Gabe pushes her way through the crowd, not acknowledging anyone, and makes her way to the front hall.

Travie thinks for a minute and then follows her. The music changes.

She gets into the front hall to see Gabe disappearing up the stairs and down the hall. Travie goes up after her.

The bathroom door at the end of the hall is open; when Travie passes by Gabe's standing in front of the mirror reapplying her eyeliner. Travie says, "Hey."

Gabe looks up. "Oh, hey. You caught me putting my face on."

"Just wanted to say good set."

"What? I can't hear you over that shit they're playing downstairs."

Travie takes a hesitant step into the bathroom and shuts the door. "Just wanted to say good set."

"Thanks," Gabe says shortly. "I fucked it up a little bit."

"Not too bad."

"Not too bad," Gabe says. She gives her face a critical look in the mirror and then drops the eyeliner pencil, satisfied. "It just makes you more awesome when you let people see you fuck up, anyway."

"Look –"

"Wait," Gabe says. She digs into her purse and brings out two folded bills. "For the juice. Thanks for that. Pre-show jitters. It happens, you know?"

"My treat," Travis says.

Gabe frowns at her. She keeps holding the money out. Travie shakes her head.

Gabe drops the money back into her purse. "I gotta tell you, you confuse the hell out of me."

"Well, that makes us even," Travie says. "Why are _you_ confused?"

Gabe thinks a minute. "Because I didn't ask you to be nice to me," she says finally. "Why do you keep being nice to me?"

"I haven't been nice," Travie protests.

Gabe rolls her eyes.

"Just wondering," Travie says. "You want to grab something to eat one of these days? Confuse each other one-on-one?"

Gabe looks at her. "You fucking around with me?"

"I don't think so."

Gabe picks up her purse and puts it next to the sink. She rummages around in it but doesn't seem to find anything. "I don't eat meat," she says finally.

"Neither do I."

*****

She arranges to pick Gabe up at her house at eight. She figures they'll go to the café downtown and grab a sandwich and then go to a bar, just something casual. She's doing her best not to think about this in terms of dating.

Another one of Gabe's housemates, a tall guy with glasses, opens the door for her, saying, "Hey, are you Travie? I'm Alex. Gabe's not ready yet, why don't you come in?"

The house is exactly the kind of shithole Travie's been expecting, the mail piled up on milk crates and burn marks in the carpets. Alex says, "It shouldn't be too long. Go make yourself comfortable."

There's a little dude playing Grand Theft Auto in the living room. He looks up through a wave of hair and nods at Travie, then goes back to stealing cars. Travie sits on the couch and watches over his shoulder.

After ten minutes, the little guy looks up again and says, "Want a beer?"

"Sounds okay," Travie says.

"Suarez," the little guy shouts at the kitchen. Alex yells back, "What?"

"Do we have any beer left?"

"I don't know. Ryland, do we have any beer?"

"There's some in the fridge," Travie hears Ryland yell from another part of the house. "Who wants a beer?"

"I don't want a beer. Nate, do you want a beer?"

"Gabe's friend wants a beer," the little dude, who Travie guesses is Nate, shouts, then, as an apologetic aside, quieter, "I don't know your name."

Ryland comes into the living room from wherever else he's been. "Is she _still_ upstairs? Hi. How long have you been waiting?"

"I don't know," Travie says.

"Suarez, would you go get Gabrielle out of the bathroom? We've got company." Ryland shouts at the kitchen.

"She's _primping_ ," Alex says by way of explanation.

"She's been primping forever. She'll never come out if someone doesn't get her."

"I've had to piss for the last twenty minutes," Nate says conversationally.

"Oh," Ryland says. "I know what'll get her out." He turns around and leaves the room.

Two minutes later, Ryland returns, smirking. He presses a finger to his lips and then sits down beside Travie.

Travie hears Gabe say, "I was told that there would be tequila –" and then she rounds into the living room, wearing a raggedy Ernie and Bert T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. There are little cotton balls stuck between her toes.

Travie realizes belatedly that Gabe has a splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose and over her cheeks. She and Gabe stare at each other for a minute.

Gabe actually squeaks, turns on her heel and dashes away. Travie hears thumping up the stairs.

"You know she's going to kill you for that," Alex says from the doorway.

"It was worth it," Ryland says.

"Can I use the bathroom now?" Nate says.

"Maybe I should go get her," Travie says.

"I think you're probably the best choice for that," Alex says diplomatically. "Her room's upstairs. First door on the left."

Travie goes upstairs. She knocks on the closed door on the left. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nate racing for the bathroom.

"Fuck off," she hears behind the door.

"It's just me."

The door stays shut. "Sorry about that. I should have warned you that _my housemates are assholes_ ," Gabe says, loud enough to be heard pretty much everywhere.

"Look, I was probably early anyway," Travie says. "I'm hungry. Get out of there and let's go grab something."

"No. I look gross."

"You do not. You look cute. C'mon, open the door."

There's a long pause behind the door. "For real?"

"For real."

Travie waits another couple minutes. Finally Gabe says, "Well, I guess the romantic mystery's all shot to shit, anyway," and opens the door. "You want to help me pick out something to wear?"

Gabe's room has piles and piles of magazines and old books lined neatly against the walls. Gabe says, "Sit wherever."

Travie sits cross-legged on the bed and watches Gabe go through her closet. Travie says, "You go through all this every time you go out?"

"Every time I leave the house," Gabe says. "What do you think of these?" She turns around, holding a pair of artfully distressed jeans in one hand, something white and floaty in the other.

"Let me see," Travie says.

Gabe takes a step closer, still holding out her hands. Travie catches her wrist, presses her fingers to the soft skin along her pulse.

"You don't need me to help you decide," Travie says.

"I don't," Gabe says. "I still wanted to ask."

Travie tugs her forward, watching the white thing drift to the floor. "Why's that?"

"Objective opinion," Gabe says. Travie tugs at her again and she drops down next to her on the bed. "Oof."

"That's some shitty balance you've got there," Travie says.

"I thought you were hungry. I believe you're trying to take advantage of an innocent young thing like me instead."

"Is it working?"

"I don't know," Gabe says. "I think you should practice on me some more."

Travie thinks that they can skip the dinner.


End file.
